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here is your hair. fingered and cherished as an open organ, creeping from its cloth along the L line here is a glance from man with bright white feet, small hands scruffing coiff in train window here is the moon. all rays diffused silent on window sill — on train and in your room, on the ground Here Steps March; commuter rail in corridor and station and here is the tail of a dog you saw on the L here is a smile but still rays refuse to speak and here is smirk as they trip away. under your feet and over here is drunk men still drinking and spilling themselves around you onto pavement Here is a street stricken with shadows and here is the simper you offer to the crosswalk so it gives back the purse here is the bar with the COOL lights, here is your fake but here is your curfew and here are your parents and there is your house so here is where you glide along rays until you realize you’re up and stop for a sec

Water laps at shoes and hem Pursuing pace of men Gulls, across the sweating depths Call to brethren Clouds aloft like bunched-up smoke Settle through your nose Ringing scent of new-spring-wiles Courses: ebbs, and flows Angles float as clouds divest From shrouded, rising sun In summer and in winter’s glow Ducks dive one by one Passing wisps of blossomed air Tangled in our ears Swim to Brooklyn o’er breaths As mallard reappears.

“it is easy to imagine love as a flying Thing, with wings of silk and clawed feet that climb the skyscrapers when it is dark enough for white feathers to fade to black, when it is quiet enough for noise to settle below us so that its call is not heard. it is easy to imagine Love as a lonely thing, whose words drip as honey from its mouth but settle into ravines and oceans and sink below the grass’s roots rather than glaze a lover’s lips — it is easy to imagine Love as a thing that exists without time or nature but then again that is so hard, it is impossible.” “love is a bird as you say, whether it is a bird without time or nature I could not tell you. It is a bird with wings of silk and clawed feet and honey words, but it is those things only as a walnut shell is a walnut. if it were to consume us we would burn from inside out, and our eyes would melt at the sight of it and it would infect every one of us until it was alone, really alone, until the oceans were deadened and trees b...

i burned my finger once, trying to feel a cloud bodies are composed of little tiny wisps of smoke components of a living mass enveloped in— white haze, struck by a match but filling in a way it’s been impossible to depend on such a rush. it may have been stupid but I burned my finger once, twice in the same place or maybe not, but, it felt the same, like pressing down a button slowly, deliberate, it hurt but not a lot. I burned my finger, once it was always to feel but wisps are intangible, so the ache delayed and the stinging immediate, dulled by the impossibility of a wisp but not enough a recreation of a declaration of my reservation, I swung along the white wisps and sang a song of remembrance but I burned my finger and the jolt sent me back to my head.

Brown bark stretches to no end Far as Eye can see Leaves have sprinkled ground below; Reflecting canopy Air, and light must angle 'round Protruding acorn caps As they sift through dusted trunks In petrified relapse Birds of wing and feather dine As berries strain to burst Hawks applaud with whoosh of air As Fledgling kills his first Chicken egg adult and child Course of forest brought Pulsing stream delays the tides In mesmerizing thought Secret light has come to pass Encased in solemn gels; The sap of hardened, timeless trees For which the Earth compels In aching limbs is wood's repose A glimmer of a sight The tones of black-run elegance Embrace a human's night And thus the tale of tempest ring In birth in life in death The trees will sing a song of sin With final, heaving breath.

Glory crimson crimson crimson a decadent display of foaming mouth and clenched jaw, how could intangible tension turn to such raw, intended emotion how could the dances we drew on become us and all our motions cruelly sifted words spit from the devil inhibit our conceptions, pretensions how possessed, obsessed we are to fix what’s been taken, by the. crimson crimson crimson